drops of honey
whispered in my ear
drop from a precipice
landing on my feet
‘drop it’ she said
‘i can’t take more of this’
tear drop twinkle
shining on her cheek
a drop in the ocean
with a thirty fathom splash
**********************************
In response to the days prompt at
https://dailypost.wordpress.com/prompts/
here come the dark clouds
unpredictable weather
at the start of spring
‘I am melted’ she said,
sighing to music
like ice-cream?
like cheese?
like chocolate?
I asked her, concerned
”I think like hot fudge syrup,
yes like that”
thoughtfully she replied,
looking in my eyes,
dripping caramel
I’m so glad it’s not like a candle!
I would hate her to burn away and go out
leaving me with no light
especially on a such a magical night
as this
***************
the ‘melt’ music ~ The Way You Look Tonight by Dolls Combers
sun-splashed showers
of rainbow’d light
paint the valley far below
and tip the trees with golden glow
the river, flowing out of sight,
reflects the colours of the sky
a kestrel turns on air above
yet my heart,
like dynamite, balanced on a precipice,
could snuff this glorious vision out,
turning sunbeams into night
souls,
no longer with a beating heart,
drift in silent patterns now
far apart from memory
at rest in universals dreams they share,
heedless of a when or where,
uncaring of a how or why,
unknowing of the present I
returning to defining space,
given back a mind and face,
what they forget,
and what they know,
is still a shadow in the mind
constellations intertwined
create a tribe invisible,
as searching down the road we go
true foundations are so few
in matters solid, temporal.
when I return,
unknowing what it is I do,
I will find,
along the way,
that I will always
search for you
if they walked
down the street
hand in hand
in this town
they would stop all the traffic
in no time
more magic than movies
their beauty surpasses this place
people may wonder
as the crowds part around them,
like water around an island,
why her mouth
has that other-world touch
that slight strangeness
he loves
so much
his smile looks like music
she walks like a river
his eyes dream of forests
there’s a glow, there’s a shine
in the softness of skin
that’s so hard to define
their words
are not spoken
but the birds,
in concealing
her wings,
overheard
their song
with a double-ended stick
chance pokes at me
right off the chart
right off the map
can i be blamed
for not trusting that,
when it can shatter my world?
frying pan; liar
true-teller; fire
just about sums it up
why should it be, that in telling the truth,
the people that mean the most to me
are the ones that trust me the least?
protecting themselves
from the beast
i suppose
and who can blame them
for that
shackled by earth
from the day of my birth
my mind has done battle
to keep my heart free
a life-sentenced prisoner
i long for release
or a little grace-given peace
A ballet (machinima) based around my poems.
Full credits are given on the link
Our lives are full of disposable objects;
things we are given, things we buy.
From our birth to our death
we are magpies hording trinkets.
When we die they’ll be scattered
Others will decide
which ones mattered
to their own memories
or settle for intrinsic worth.
Some objects hold nothing,
others are full of feelings, stories,
warmth that leaves a long imprint
to be felt by some perceptive stranger
in a junk shop pile of the forgotten
the lost, the unwanted, undefined
the bowl with the flying swans,
their necks wrapped around each other,
was a gift from a lover
the stick with the broken handle
that once held a whistle
all that’s left of a father now
the stone from a beach. the gift of a child.
whose legs were still unsteady
faded petals and feathers in a box
the teddy with a skin worn thin by cuddles
the decorative key that fits no locks
a golden ring, an angel fish,
bracelets, baubles of no value,
a locket with a folded wish,
old and faded, hid behind a photograph
where no-one now will ever find it
or understand it if they did
a tarot pack, with one card missing,
because the Fool is lost and gone
every traveller journeys on
When Arthur’s Golden Age had ended
and the country fell to mourn,
its true, some beauty fair had ended
like the sparkling morning dew.
The earth took on a darker hue.
But I was one who bore him safely,
far away to other shores,
where the mists hung thick and shrouded,
and all good hearts can be renewed.
We sailed close and he was lifted
in our gentle loving arms.
We sang for him to soothe his sleep.
Our sails of gold and white were lovely.
On tender winds we sailed away
to the land where all know kindness
and the fair can ne’er grow old.
We of the Fae have understanding
of the tales to still unfold.
In the fabled land of apples
Arthur sleeps the sleep of dreams.
We laid him in his Tomb to rest.
There, he awaits the day of waking,
in the land that’s ever blessed.
The Dreaming Path 